Cover Fire
by CrazyRower
Summary: Here they come," Foreman muttered, steadying himself against the earthen wall of the fighting hole. Wilson swallowed hard. He hadn't wanted this. He'd only signed up to find his brother. House/Wilson, pre-slash, possible slash.
1. First Blood

Disclaimer: I don't own House, MD, or the characters.

Warning: Parts of this story may be difficult to read. Individual warnings are posted on the more controversial chapters. Any resemblance to actual people and happenings is a coincidence, which means purely unintentional. This story is not intended to provide a record of battles or events.

Chapter 1—First Blood

A blue-eyed sergeant snickered as the Marine Corps barber sheared off the hair of the man next to him. The man was wincing and twitching as his golden-brown locks fell to the tile floor. His nametag read Wilson, and the sergeant made a mental note of this, hoping the man wouldn't be in his squad. He didn't want to waste his time with someone who cried over a haircut. They left the barber shop and moved on to uniforms.

"Double check that helmet," the sergeant said, addressing Wilson. Wilson looked at him, puzzled, then back at the green, metal helmet in his hands. It was dented on the right-hand side. He walked off to find a better one, leaving the nosy sergeant to his own devices.

"When we get there," the CO screamed over the din of the airplane engine, not loud enough to constitute the yelling, "there will be absolutely no horseplay, no talking, no fraternizing with gooks, absolutely no talking to women or children! You will proceed directly to your choppers where your weapons await! Am I clear?"

A strong "yes sir!" answered the CO, who just laughed and went to the section of the plane reserved for officers. Wilson looked towards the bathroom, but the line already stretched to the middle of the aisle.

"He meant all of that," a voice said, followed by the sound of a page turning. Wilson jumped; had the blue-eyed sergeant been there before? He dimly recalled the man's laughter during the haircut, and his dented helmet. "These women have STDs that eat penicillin for breakfast."

"You've been here before?" Wilson asked, now eagerly turning to the scruffy man.

"Yeah, second tour. I signed up for it the first time, and now I'm here because of the draft."

"I signed up."

"You're an idiot. You should've gone to college."

"I was in pre-med."

"Was?"

"I thought it was unfair that people who couldn't afford school were forced to fight."

"Until now, that is."

"I'm starting to have second thoughts."

"What's your name?"

"James Wilson."

"You're in my squad. Try not to die."

Before Wilson had the chance to ask the sergeant's name, he was gone. The newspaper had been left on the seat, neatly folded next to the arm rest. The plane began to plummet down to earth, and the CO who had given out the airstrip-conduct orders was now barking at the recruits to get off the plane and board their designated helicopters. The heat of the day suffocated the troops as they deplaned. Wilson felt as if a hot, wet sock was being forced down his throat as he struggled into one of the choppers.

"Get in here, you moron," the blue-eyed sergeant grumbled, yanking Wilson into the helicopter by the collar of his jungle jacket. He tumbled onto the floor of the chopper and hastily found a seat between a black man and a thin, spry white man.

"Put your headset on," the black soldier said, pushing a clunky pair of headphones into Wilson's hands. He took them, and warily removed his helmet to put them on. The noise emanating from the helicopter engine dimmed.

"We're going to Khe Sanh," the sergeant's voice said through the earphones. "Make sure your gun's loaded before we get on the ground. You'll probably come off shooting. Follow me to the base, and don't try to find a short cut. We can't land directly at the base; it's too foggy. Reset your watches, also. It's oh-six hundred hours. Day's just starting."

Anti-aircraft rounds suddenly started to slap off of the sides of the helicopter. The recruits held on tight to the seats and handles as the little chopper swerved and shook, careening through the air, desperately trying to flee. There was a bang, a flash, and the anti-aircraft guns ceased. The smell of napalm and burning jungle quickly abolished any relaxing thoughts in the young men's minds.

"Landing," the sergeant said, "leave the headsets. Get your guns!"

The helicopter started to shake. The squad grabbed their guns and jumped out of the chopper, desperately running after their leader.

No shots rang out through the jungle, and no voices. Mortar holes, left over from earlier in the war, had created small, foul-smelling ponds that dotted the jungle floor; Wilson struggled to swallow the nausea as they walked past them. No animals crawled through the trees. The men were completely alone, with only their wits and their rifles. The sun had begun to set behind the hills before anyone caught sight of the base.

"Okay," the sergeant said, stopping at the base of a hill and turning to face his men. There were twelve of them all together. "This is our hill. Foreman and the short guy," the sergeant made a vague hand motion at the black soldier and the man next to him, who was six inches shorter and had a large nose, "repair the razor wire. I want a good perimeter, because the assholes here before you left a nice, big mess. The rest of you need to get up top and start digging. Fill up sandbags, fix up the bunkers. This hill is ours, and it's up to you what kind of cover you get. I'd recommend deepening the trenches by at least a foot."

The group split up before the sergeant finished talking, hurrying to dig trenches and repair the razor wire perimeter. Some men dragged crates of ammo and mortars into the ammo dump, others stockpiled boxes of rations and other supplies. They stacked the heavy, clay-filled sandbags on top of each other, leaving gaps for windows, and layered sheets of plywood on top of them for a crude roof. Corrugated steel was used for gutters for the anticipated rain, pieces of unidentifiable, blasted-apart materials scattered outside the perimeter as a deterrent.

"What's the purpose of using hills?" Wilson asked, sitting on the earthy trench floor, next to the sergeant, who was mixing a canteen of coffee.

"Some almighty jackass in D.C. thinks that the NVA is going to try to regain the base at Khe Sanh. So they gave us some high ground in exchange for defense. I can't believe you actually signed up for this crap."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Do us all a favor, and think your next decision through."

"Who are you?"

The sergeant wiped the mud off his nametag.

"Sergeant Greg House," he said.

"What happened to your other squad?" Wilson had probably only spent a grand total of ten minutes with this man, and could already tell that he would be a headache.

"A squad of NVA's snuck up on us while we were asleep. I was in the john while those damn gooks cut their throats." He took a pill bottle from one of his cargo pockets, and swallowed four of the pills.

"What's a gook?"

"A Vietnamese soldier. Men! Get over here!"

The squad dropped their conversations and ran over to House.

"We have a few ground rules to go over," House said, "no saluting. Keep your helmets buckled and flak jackets zipped up. Take care of your feet before your toes rot off. Don't move around too much during the day. You all got that?"

The squad nodded, self-consciously checking their zippers and helmet straps. They were terrified, eyes never lingering in one place, shifting their weight nervously. House was grateful that their rations came with gum. He figured it would relieve some of their tension.

"One last thing," House said, "I don't care if you're black," he pointed at Foreman, "short," at Taub, "a total idiot," Wilson, "or…" He looked at the middle-Asian man, "Kutner-ese. You're all here for the same reason. Even the skinny white kids. Right now, you're all morons. Some of you are going to die. I don't care what you ware, so don't expect to be treated different. We all use the same john, eat the same crappy food, wear the same clothes, make the same pay. I don't care if you make cracker jokes, I don't care if you make Jew jokes, don't act like a bunch of stupid kids. You're men. Am I clear?"

There was a murmur of 'yes, sir' and the men dispersed. House went back to his bunker and swept the dust off one of the racks.

"Is it okay if I stay here"? Wilson asked, timidly peeking into House's bunker. "Everyone else sort of paired off."

"I don't care," House said, dropping his backpack onto a dirty cluster of crates. He picked up his binoculars and stared out the crude window. "Get your rifle and get everyone into fighting holes, right now. Be quick, and keep your head down."

Wilson picked up his M-16 and darted into the trench. House readied his M-60 and a shotgun, just in case. He stuffed a knife into his boot and ran down the hill, into a fighting hole.

"What's going on?" Kutner hissed, annoyed at House's sudden intrusion. The M-60 machine gun was enormous.

"I caught some movement outside the perimeter," House said in a low tone, "Keep your eyes ahead and keep down." Ignoring his own instructions, House raised his head out of the hole. "Taub!"

"Sir?" Taub asked, his voice spewing from one of the other holes. His common sense had told him to keep low.

"Get somewhere out of sight. You're the sniper, right?"

"That I am. Where?"

"A bunker or something. Make sure you stay out of sight."

Taub leapt out of his fighting hole, leaving Chase alone, and sprinted to a bunker at the edge of camp, one that had been left unused.

The countryside in front of the hill was eerily silent and the humid darkness crept up around the squad, hugging them tight. There wasn't a man on that hill whose hands were still from shaking, not knowing what House had seen.

"Here they come," Foreman muttered, steadying himself against the earthen wall of the hole. Wilson swallowed hard, again willing himself not to throw up, and pointed his rifle out of the hole. He hadn't wanted this. He'd only signed up to find his brother.

"Get down!" House barked, startling all of his men. They hit the ground just in time; a volley of 122mm mortars slammed into the side of the hill, sending hot metal shards flying in every direction. Wilson felt something burning on his arm, but shook it off. He felt Foreman stand up, but stayed down, paralyzed. He heard the hum of House's M-60, peppered by Taub's occasional shots, and the fact that he, too, had a gun occurred to him. An entire magazine was gone before Wilson even realized he was standing. Sweat poured down his chest, soaking his jacket, making his trembling hands slick. It took two tries to reload his rifle.

"They're coming up!" House yelled, "Foreman, Chase, get up with Taub! Kutner, Wilson, stay put! Everyone else pull forward! Hess, radio in an airstrike!"

The men scrambled over the hill, masked by a series of smoke grenades, bullets landing all around them. House heaved his gun, all thirty pounds of it, up to his waist and moved forward into Foreman's abandoned position.

"Keep firing," House ordered, pulling out his tripod and reloading. Wilson looked at the huge gun in horror, realizing House meant for him to take over. He'd only fired one at basic training, on a range, and had no idea what to do should it jam or overheat. House yanked the shotgun from his back and pitched a flare, momentarily lighting the hill. He saw five men advancing at the edge of the perimeter, and ran towards them, firing his shotgun. The sound of airplane engines slowly pierced the air.

"Retreat!" House yelled, turning on his heel. He grabbed his M-60 on the way up the hill, and barely reached cover before the jungle lit up into an explosion of napalm. The hill shook, and all the soldiers could do was clap their hands over their ears and stay down until the attack ceased.

"Welcome to Vietnam," House said, standing up straight. The men slowly returned to their feet, slightly disoriented. Their first day did not go as expected. "Get some chow and hunker down. Where is Taub?"

"We're alright," Chase said, appearing next to the group of men in the trench. Taub and Foreman were behind him, disheveled, weapons in hand. "What was that?"

"Napalm, I think," House said, now sitting on a crate of grenades and cleaning his weapons. "Maybe white phosphorus. I didn't get a good enough look. Too busy bouncing around and trying not to die. Go eat. Foreman and Kutner, you're on lookout tonight. Don't fall asleep or I'll put you on point for the rest of the week."

Foreman and Kutner nodded and left, making a note to get more coffee. Neither of them wanted to be first in line on a march through the jungle.

"You lived," House said to Wilson, picking up his guns and walking towards their bunker. Wilson followed him. "You might be less of an idiot than I thought."

"I just kind of aimed in front of me," Wilson said. He felt awkward around the older man, insufficient.

"Well enough not to shoot me," House carefully reassembled his M-60 and moved on to his shotgun.

"How many rifles do you carry?"

"Three, usually, and a knife."

"A knife"

"Duh. How else would I have escaped the throat-slitting? I decapitated six NVA with the knife in my boot."

"What's an NVA?"

"I stand corrected, you are an idiot." House sat on his bunk. "An NVA is a Vietnamese soldier. They're also called gooks and Congs, short for Viet Cong. I think we're mostly fighting NVA. If you don't know what that is, you can spare Foreman and Kutner a day on point."

Wilson cringed, "it's the North Vietnamese Army."

"Good job, pick out a sticker." House searched through his things and took out his day's rations. "We're going on patrol tomorrow, so eat and go straight to sleep." He opened a sickly looking package of freeze-dried 'ham' and a can of bread.


	2. Brutality

Chapter 2—Brutality

"So, what exactly are we looking for?" Chase whispered, eyes scanning the rice paddies on both sides of the road.

"Gooks," a soldier called Cleary said, drawing a joint out of his pants pocket. Chase nodded once and focused on the path in front of him. He and Cleary were on point, leading the squad to parts unknown. House was behind them, telling them where to venture next.

"Stop," House threw up his hand and the squad dove into the ditches between the paddies and the road. House scanned the entrance to the jungle, searching out movement. "Clear!" The men stood up and resumed marching. Cleary extinguished his joint.

"Was that just a big circle?" Wilson hissed upon entering the familiar stretch of jungle.

"Perimeter march," House said, "now shut up."

They hiked up past their hill and around the main base of Khe Sanh. The Marines looked longingly at the base—these men got movies and daily showers. They lived above ground, in a completely different world. Hill life was different, a plague to them. Mud soaked into their clothes and boots, stuck to their faded, bristly faces. They had only what helicopters brought them and nothing more. No electricity, no running water. They lived in fear, barely sleeping because of gunfire and giant rats, lived in fear of siege. They wouldn't last long without supply choppers.

*~*~*~*

"What's the point of this?" Wilson asked, staring off into the humid night through a set of binoculars. "If the NVA wants to invade, there isn't really anything twelve men can do about it."

"Warn the base," House suggested, "they send the information to some general, who writes it down."

"And no one comes in to save the hills?"

"Nope. I've been stationed on every one of these stupid hills, and never got more than an airstrike."

"That's insane."

"Wait until tomorrow. Then you'll see crazy."

Wilson looked up from his binoculars, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I got orders from the base for another patrol. They found a village of suspected Viet Cong near here."

"What's so bad about that? They might not be VC's."

House didn't respond. He simply sipped his coffee and gazed out into the dark, reluctant to tell Wilson about the horrors to come.

*~*~*~*

"We're going on another patrol," House said after breakfast the next morning. "This one will be different. It's a village patrol, and it will be the hardest thing you ever do. We have to shoot all of the airstrike survivors, and then burn the village. They aren't all going to be men. Do what you have to do and fall apart on your own time."

The squad finished their breakfast in silence and assembled into two columns of six. House passed out chewing gum; he could feel the tension radiating from his men. This time, they all knew, they wouldn't be as lucky as they had on their first night. Not everyone would come home with them.

The order to move out came all too soon. They met up with another squad at the base of their hill, and marched away. Following House and Wilson, they ran through the jungle, thankful that they'd had the foresight to travel light. No one paid much thought to the alien squad, or the vines tugging at their boots. They all turned off their rifle safety at the same time, and Cleary and Chase went in first.

What was left of the village was carnage, stopping the young Marines in their tracks. Broken bodies lay in ditches, piles, beside houses. The little bamboo huts were blown apart, pieces of them littering the muddy ground.

"Kill the survivors," House growled.

"You heard him," the other sergeant said. The squads dispersed in pairs, seeking out anything that still moved. Not knowing where to start, and slightly ill from the stench, Wilson followed House towards a hut that was still mostly intact.

"Get on point," House ordered. He drew out his knife, barely breathing. The smell of napalm and flesh was revolting. Wilson said a quick prayer and burst into the hut with a blaze of bullets.

"Hold your fire!" House yelled, pulling Wilson back. "Hold your goddamn fire Marine!" Wilson stopped firing. He'd killed two old men and a teenager, all of whom held outdated British rifles. "Move out, idiot. You just gave away our position."

Head hung and gun on safety, Wilson trotted after House, toward the rest of their squad. House looked ahead just in time to see something crawling along the ground—a person with no legs—moving towards his men.

"Get down!"

An explosion rang through the village. Shrapnel whizzed through the air, slicing into the terrified soldiers, killing them before they had the chance to turn and run. Smaller chunks slammed into House and Wilson's flak jackets, clattered off their helmets.

"Shit," House grumbled. "Hold this, and don't shoot." He pressed his M-16 into Wilson's hands and ran to his fallen men.

"They're dead," Chase said, "look." He nudged Cleary's head to the side with his boot. It rolled away, down a hill, landing with a splash.

"Get the tags," House ordered, "and any usable gear."

The men looked at him, blank.

"Move!"

House drew a large bottle of kerosene from his web gear, and started splashing it on piles of bamboo, remains of huts. He tossed the empty can away, and pulled out another, and a third. The men moved out of his way, unsure, and watched him light a match and toss it into the heap of bodies.


	3. Suicide

A/N: Character Death.

Chapter 3: Suicide

"Are you done yet?" House asked irritably, kicking Wilson's bedpost. He was in a fetal position, crying from the shock of what he'd seen at the village. None of the recruits were quite the same as they had been that morning, but Wilson was worse. Killing wasn't in his nature, especially when it came to the elderly and the young.

"Does it matter?" Wilson shot, voice cracking.

"Yes, it does. I'm going to give you ten minutes while I radio the base. When I get back, you'd better have this crap sorted out."

House picked up Wilson's .45 and left the bunker.

"Who has the tags?" House asked, striding into Taub and Foreman's bunker. "I need to do a KIA report."

"I've got them," Chase said, digging the dog tags of the fallen men out of one of his cargo pockets and handing them to House. House made foreman call the base, and sat on the ground next to Chase.

"Who knows Wilson?" He asked, eyes drilling into the men.

"I went to school with him," Chase offered, picking up a pack of cigarettes lying on Foreman's bunk. He contemplated smoking one, then put them down. "Any reason?"

"He went to high school in Australia?"

"No. I immigrated before that. What's wrong with him?"

"He's bawling his eyes out over what happened at the village. All he did was kill two old guys. They would've died anyway."

"He's not a killer. He's the kind of boy who stayed after school to clean chalkboards. Not the one demanding smaller children's dinner money."

"Does he have any kind of mental disorders? I need to know if he'll be prone to depression."

"No that I know of. He's…a little…well; it's not really a big deal...."

"Chase, anything you hide could easily have detrimental effects on this squad. If he's nuts, we'll all be dead by tomorrow morning."

"He's gay. Not openly, but he's definitely not straight."

"I just needed to know if he was crazy or just a pussy."

"Definitely the latter."

"The base wants bodies," Foreman interjected, "what should I tell them?"

House sucked in a deep breath. "There aren't any. Just leave it at that."

"Why did you burn them?" Chase asked. He turned an empty crate over and sat on it, tired of the mud soaking into what was left of his pants. Foreman sighed and relayed House's comments to the operator.

"It was just the orders," House said. "If we'd tried to call in a chopper, the entire forest would've lit up. It would have been a siren. Given up our position. We had to make sure no one got the bodies."

House looked at his watch and abruptly stood up and left the bunker, leaving Chase alone with what he'd just said.

"You done?" House asked, stepping into his bunker. Wilson was sitting on his rack and staring at the ground, no longer crying.

"Yes, sir," Wilson said in a monotone.

"I'm not angry. I just can't have you falling apart after missions like that, because it will happen again. If you can't—" House's speech was cut off by a single gunshot. "Get your rifle, now! Go down to Chase!"

House cocked the .45 he'd taken from Wilson and drew out his knife, running down the trench. The shot had come from the direction of Kutner and Cleary's bunker. He wondered why there was only one shot, and turned the corner.

"Damn it!"

Kutner lay dead on the floor of the trench, M-16 in his right hand. He had shot himself.

"Chase!" House barked upon hearing boots crunch against gritty mud and wood planks. "Get me a poncho and a medevac! Nobody comes in here!"

Kutner's blood had started to creep towards House's boots, staining the scuffed toes. Chase threw him a poncho, and he hastily wrapped Kutner's body with it.

"Give me a hand," House said to Foreman. They lifted Kutner's cold, limp body out of the trench for the helicopter to pick up.

"Seven men in two days," House remarked, walking away from Kutner's bunker. Foreman and Taub were left to clean up the blood and write to his family.

No one slept that night. It had only taken Kutner one day to decide to shoot himself; the other wondered if the same fate would find them. Thoughts of the things they'd seen in the village found them that night while they listened to the rockets flying by over head. Small bursts of fire kept them awake, forcing them to think of how it felt to kill.

"Why did Kutner kill himself?" Wilson wondered aloud, turning over on his bunk. It was difficult to sleep in mud.

"Some men just can't deal with it," House explained. "And occasionally, they kill themselves. Sometimes they walk into enemy territory, sometimes they shoot themselves."

"Is that why you took my pistol?"

"Yep."

"I don't want to die."

"Obviously. No one wants to die. Not out here, at least."

Wilson cast him an ill smile. "What are we doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing. The orders were to stay put. They're launching rockets everywhere, so it's really not safe to go out."

"For how long?"

"Until they say otherwise."

House rolled over, adjusted his helmet, and went to sleep. Wilson stared up at the dirty plywood ceiling of the bunker, thinking. He didn't want to die. He'd signed up to find Danny, after his mother had received a notice saying that Danny would send half of his paycheck home. The morning after, Wilson had proudly marched down to the service office and signed up for the Marines, thinking that he would eventually meet up with his brother. The war had proved him wrong, however, and now he lay awake, wondering if Danny had been killed by a bomb dressed up as a civilian.


	4. Siege

Chapter 4—Siege

The crushing weight of reality smothered the Marines as they watched yet another helicopter fall out of the air, shot down by enemy guns. The Khe Sanh Combat Base had nearly been leveled the night before, and rockets and mortars from both sides continued to fill the air. The Marines in the hills had been driven almost underground; trenches deepened and fallout shelters dug between bombings.

The constant rain did little to raise morale; it only raised trench foot. House's squad had gotten into the habit of wearing crude wooden sandals around the trench in a vain attempt to dry their feet.

"We're officially under siege," Foreman said when the din of the crashing helicopter silenced. He turned off the radio and sat in the circle with his fellow Marines. Black and white was no longer an issue. They were all a single race: mud.

"No shit," House countered. "If they don't fix this helicopter problem soon, we're dead men."

There had only been two successful resupply missions in the past month. They had a surplus of ammo from the lack of fighting, but necessities; socks, rations, water, were running low.

"Something's bound to come in. The carpet-bombing thing worked pretty well."

"But it's not foolproof."

"Quit being so damn cynical."

House suddenly jumped to his feet and looked up over the side of the trench. "Guns, now."

The men scattered to retrieve their guns and ammo, and looked to House for orders.

"Don't bother with fighting holes," House said, "there's only five of us. Taub, get into the sniper's nest. Foreman and Chase, take the far end. Wilson, you and I get the front."

The group broke, recognizing that there was no time for fear, no time for hesitation. The air burned in their chests as they waited, straining to see what House had seen, in the wilderness.

Taub shot first. Everyone heard him, but he had managed to mask his muzzle flash so they couldn't follow his path. Suddenly, little flashes of light erupted from various, hidden points in front of the hill. Fear gripped the Marines as they returned fire.

"Wilson," House yelled over the commotion, "claymores, now!"

Terrified, Wilson automatically picked up the claymore mines and froze at the thought of having to climb out of the trench. A small part of him had hoped that House would run out and set the mines, but he knew it was a farfetched wish.

"I'll cover you," the older man said, "just stick them between here and the perimeter and make sure they're pointing away from us. Go now!"

Wilson leapt out of the trench and dropped the claymores in front of the abandoned fighting holes. He barely breathed as he glanced to make sure the tubes were pointed towards the jungle, hoping that House and Taub's supporting fire wouldn't hit him. Blinded by terror, he didn't notice the NVA soldier slide under the perimeter wire behind him.

"Wilson, turn around!" Chase screamed. Taub froze, he couldn't shoot the enemy soldier without killing Wilson. A misaimed shot, he decided, would only kill Wilson and free the other man.

Wilson spun on his heel to face the advancing soldier. Automatically, he drew his knife out of his boot, disregarding the pistol at his waist, and sliced the oncoming man open from shoulder to groin, and resumed fleeing the battlefield. Taub snapped back into reality and sniped two men nearing the perimeter.

"Did you arm them?" House yelled, reloading his M-60 and double-checking his shotgun.

"Yeah," Wilson said. He tossed a few grenades over the perimeter wire. House picked up the detonator for the claymores and fired them all, one by one, until the forest was still.

"Don't get comfy," House warned, barely loud enough for everyone to hear, "they'll be back. Get the guns cool. Piss on them if you have to, but don't use water. There's some leftover pineapple juice in the supply bunker." He leaned on the trench wall and took a deep breath. Wilson's encounter had been a lucky break; Chase never spotted anything out of the ordinary.

"Are you hit?" House asked Wilson, looking him over carefully. It would be impossible to see any blood through the inch of mud caked on his uniform.

"No," Wilson said. He was shaking violently, drenched in sweat, trying to pick up his rifle and reload it. House took it from him and changed the magazines, and put it next to the M-60.

"You got him pretty good. Most guys would've just punched him."

Visions of the way the soldier had unraveled under his knife suddenly welled up in Wilson's mind. Mechanically, he stood up, hoisted himself over the side of the trench, and threw up. House yanked him back down for fear that he would be shot. He'd lost his helmet running back to the trench.

"Take this," House said. He removed his helmet and dropped it into Wilson's lap. Wilson gingerly put it on, giving House a confused expression.

"Idiots die faster," House explained. "I'd like you to live long enough to grow out of that."

"House," Foreman interjected, "Quang Tri is sending in a resupply chopper. They're using escorts, so don't freak out. They said to pitch out all the smoke grenades."

"Will it work? I won't waste grenades if it won't."

"They're carpet-bombing everything within twenty clicks of this place. All the hills are running low. We should be just fine."

"Fine. Pass out grenades."

Foreman quickly obliged; each man wound up with an entire case of green and white smoke grenades to himself.

*~*~*~*

"This is great," Chase said, tearing into a package from his wife. An array of chocolates, cookies, socks, underwear and other things fell into his lap. The helicopter had brought a month's worth of mail and supplies; things that had been stockpiling since it was safe for choppers to fly out to the hills. Newspapers flowed out of a package from Taub's family—the US press agreed, Khe Sanh was under siege. Chase unwrapped a package from one of his friends; and everyone leapt for the Playboys and M&M's. The only man missing out was House.

House was alone in the supply bunker, taking inventory of all the rations and uniforms. The new uniforms had been a gift from God, especially the socks.

"You should try these," Wilson said through a mouth full of his mother's brownies. He held a stack out to House, who took one but didn't eat. "Where's your mail?"

"I didn't get any," House said, "never do."

"No one sends you anything?"

"Nope. Friends are overrated."

"What about your family?"

"My father won't let my mother send anything. His father died in the Great War, so his logic says, why should I get something he didn't?"

Wilson awkwardly shifted his weight, embarrassed at the twenty-seven letters and three packages waiting for him in the mail bag.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not jealous." House bit into the brownie and picked up a box of rations.

"How are you not lonely?"

"I don't get lonely. I get bored. See this?" House gestured to the jungle around them. "It staves off the boredom. I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"Leave me alone, Wilson."

Wilson sat on a stack of grenade crates at the exit of the underground bunker and crossed his arms, looking expectantly to House.

"Real cute. Are you going to stuff flowers down my gun barrel next?"

"No. I'm going to talk to you, because you clearly need someone to confide in."

"What are you? My wannabe boyfriend?"

"Who told you I'm gay?" Wilson suddenly grew tense. He could easily be deported and dishonorably discharged if House relayed his secret to his CO.

"No one told me." House decided it would be healthier for Chase if he lied. "I guessed."

"How?"

"Because of the way you fight. A straight man attacks things, no questions asked. Gay men need a bit more of a push."

"How do you know that? I just cut a guy in half."

"It is a generalization, but you generally don't even lift your gun unless I make you."

"Maybe I just—"

"—Cut the bull, Wilson. No one else knows, and I can't afford to send you home."

Wilson bobbed his head once, acknowledging the stalemate. House walked past him, back to the center of the trench, where Chase, Taub and Foreman were still opening their mail.

"Where's Wilson?" Chase asked, absentmindedly glancing up from a letter from his father.

"Contemplating things," House said. He picked up one of the many issues of Playboy sitting next to the stack of newspapers.

"Like?"

"His fighting style."

"House, he just cut a man straight open. And you're critiquing his fighting style"?

"Maybe. Taub, you're on lookout tonight. There's extra coffee in with the rations."

"Any reason for the favoritism?" Taub asked sarcastically. House had made him do lookout duty all week. He was forced to sleep in naps, becoming nearly nocturnal.

"You're a good shot. You also figured out how to mask your muzzle flashes. Those NVA guys won't know what hit them."

"Modified silencer. Why can't Chase do it"?

"Because you're doing it."

"Fuck you."

Taub picked up his things and walked away, to the sniper's nest on the very top of the hill.

"Get some rest," House ordered. "Extra socks are in with the rest of the supplies." He took a pack of M&M's out of Chase's stash and went to his bunker.

"Done contemplating?" House asked when Wilson walked into the bunker carrying enough mail to obscure the lower part of his face. He dropped it all at the foot of his bunk.

"You're an ass," Wilson said flatly. He sat on his bunk and started to arrange his letters, trying to fit them all into a little pocket on the front of one of his packs. "Here," he tossed House a box of M&M's. "I can't eat all these."

House looked at the candy and stacked it on top of a crate of grenades. "Go to bed. I'll wake you up when it's your turn to blankly stare out the window."

"I thought Taub was in charge of that?"

"Can't hurt to have some back up. You can stay here; we have a perfectly good window."

Wilson adjusted his helmet and laid on his muddy bunk, not ready for sleep. He feared that if he fell asleep, he would dream about the man he'd cut open. Similar dreams attacked him after the squad had assaulted the village of suspected Viet Congs.

"What's your problem?" House snapped, popping a handful of M&M's into his mouth. Wilson blinked, and realized he'd been staring openly at House.

"I zoned out," Wilson said, shifting onto his back, away from his commander.

"What are you even doing here? You blew off med school, you're gay, you hate killing things."

"I don't know why I'm here."

"Well, for starters, you signed up for it."

"I didn't know what I was getting myself into, asshole."

"It's a war, you idiot."

"I thought it had a point! We're only killing civilians! We're not even advancing, we're getting completely plastered!"

"Chill out. I was wondering what motivated you to sign up in the first place."

They fell silent for a few minutes, listening to the rain.

"I don't have any friends," House said bluntly. "My dad doesn't qualify as one. I have something…really big to ask you."

Wilson turned to face House. "What?"

"You're all I have at the moment, so it makes sense for you to take my flag. My mother can take care of the arrangements, but I'll be damned if my father gets a hold of my flag."

It wasn't a question; House wasn't asking. He was trusting Wilson with his coffin flag. Should House die, Wilson was to take his most valuable honor.

"Are you serious?" Wilson asked, sitting up on his bunk. "This is, like, the biggest—"

"I wouldn't have asked. If I'm dead, you get the flag and the tags." House stood up, thinking he saw movement. A rock ape was crawling around the perimeter. "Rock ape," he sighed, sitting next to Wilson. "You still didn't tell me why you're here."

"Yes I did."

"The real reason, moron."

"That was the real reason."

"No it wasn't."

"Shut up House!"

"Make me."

Without casting a second thought to the matter, Wilson leaned over, grabbed House's collar, and kissed him. He expected the sergeant to punch him in the face, and was completely taken aback when he was met by a quick return.

"Now that that's established," House said, pulling away, "tell me."

"Go to bed, House."

*~*~*~*

"While you're here," House said, addressing seven new, wide eyed, horrified soldiers, "stay inside the trenches and minimize movement unless you want to get shot. If I'm not here, you answer to foreman. Race doesn't matter out here, so get used to the idea of a black guy being in charge. We clear?"

The new men muttered a hasty 'yes, sir' and scattered. House snatched a packet of coffee out of Chase's ration box and marched down the trench. "Taub," he called, hiking up to the sniper's nest. "You in here?"

"Yes," Taub answered dryly, giving House an annoyed look.

"Make sure the new guys are digging in properly. I sent them out to deepen the fighting holes."

"Sure thing. How many—" A stream of bullets pierced the earth behind them.

"Get down!" House yelled, voice echoing to the far reaches of the hill. "Get to your positions! Foreman, take the fighting holes! I'll take it up here!"

"They're already inside the wire!" Foreman bellowed. He had been down in the fighting holes with the new men, and now busied himself by picking off the advancing Vietnamese.

"Fix bayonets and fix the problem! Chase I need an airstrike!"

House sprinted across the trench to his and Wilson's position. Rockets whistled over head, accompanied by the popping of 122mm mortar rounds from the KSCB.

"They're slaughtering the main base!" Chase yelled over the fray. "We're screwed!"

"No we're not!"

House loaded his M-60, held it at his hip and started to fire. He saw at least twenty men already inside the wire, and gunned them down. Foreman leapt out of his hole and attacked two oncoming men before advancing to the next position. A massive explosion rang through the jungle, followed by an assortment of smaller bangs and whistles.

"They hit the main base's ammo bunker!" Taub yelled from the sniper's nest, "watch your backs!"

"I have to reload," House said, "cover me."

Wilson unpinned two grenades and hurled them all the way to the perimeter wire, and resumed firing. He couldn't see the enemy, he just fired over his companions' heads. House set up his tripod and began to take aim, then felt something slam into his right leg. He whirled around, saw an NVA soldier that had somehow managed to advance up to the trench, and shot him at point blank range.

"Wilson, get the sixty," House ordered. "Foreman! I'm down! Medic!"

"Medic's down!" Foreman yelled "Get down!"

Jet engines sounded overhead. All of a sudden the jungle erupted in a flash of light, and disintegrated into dirt. Smoke rose from the ground in an eerie cloud. Two of the Marines closest to the perimeter were burned, and brush fires started to pop up where the jungle had been.

"God damn it," House swore. Blood was slowly oozing through his pants and onto the trench floor.

"Easy," Wilson said. He pulled a compress from the pocket of his jungle jacket and cut off House's pants leg. "Hang on." Wilson ran down the trench to the supply bunker and returned a few seconds later with a first aid kit.

"This'll burn," he said, pouring alcohol over the wound. House swore a blue streak, then noticed blood seeping down Wilson's arm.

"That's not mine," House said, pointing to Wilson's wound.

"Shrapnel. It's nothing."

"You're a moron."

Wilson tied the bandage to House's leg and tightened his helmet strap. A lone chopper slowly came into view over the smoky battle ground.


	5. Situation Normal, All F'd Up

Warning: While this chapter doesn't contain events that are considered MA, parts of it may be found unsavory.

Chapter 5—Situation Normal, All F-d Up

House woke up in a hospital, disoriented. His leg didn't hurt, a miracle, and when he looked down at it, the wound had only warranted a few stitches. The fact that he still had a leg surprised him because on the medevac chopper, he had passed out from the bleeding. He reached out with his uninjured leg and gently prodded the nurse attending to the man in the bed next to him.

"Where am I?" House asked when the nurse turned towards him.

"You're safe," the nurse said blankly.

"Yes, but where am I?"

"Quang Tri, and that's all I can tell you."

"When am I going to be discharged?"

The nurse gave him a pained expression and picked up the chart at the foot of his bed. "Tomorrow afternoon," she said, adding a disinterested air. She walked away, leaving House alone. Carefully, he stood up, testing his leg. Once he decided that he was stable, he donned the robe hanging at the head of his bed and sought out a meal.

*~*~*~*

"For the final time," foreman said, exasperated, "I don't know where he is, Wilson. Khe Sanh's obviously out, so he isn't anywhere close. Now get the 60 and be ready to move out in five minutes. Are we clear?"

Wilson heaved a sigh and went to his bunker. House's M-60 lay on his rack, cleaned and ready to go. House had prepped it to help take his mind off the ripping pain of the bullet in his leg until the medevac arrived. Wilson hefted the gun up over his shoulders, wincing at the weight. Combined, the gun, tripod, extra barrels and ammunition weighed well over thirty pounds.

"Move out!" Foreman barked. Wilson strapped House's shotgun to his back and joined the rest of the squad as they ran down the hill, into the jungle.

"Keep low," Foreman said when they reached the elephant grass between their hill and the main base. "We're making one round around the main perimeter. Quick and clean."

With Foreman and Wilson in the lead, the squad gradually marched around the perimeter of the entire Khe Sanh complex. The elephant grass cut into their faces and arms, drawing blood but not stopping them. They were almost back at the hill when Wilson held up his hand. Something off to the side of the grass had caught his attention. The squad stopped with a light scuffle. With one hand, Wilson racked the shotgun and shoved a clump of elephant grass aside. Five NVA soldiers sat in the mud, eyes wide in terror, guns at their feet. Wilson looked at the knot of boys, took careful aim, and shot them.

*~*~*~*

_Wilson—_

_ Something's brewing out there; the whole damn place is going to start shooting at us in a few days. One of us will get hurt. Hopefully, it's me. If it is me, I'll be shipped out, probably to Quang Tri since the KSCB is gone. I don't know why I kissed you back; I'm a Marine all the way through. No emotion. You're okay for a moron, I guess. I'll give you your corporal's stripes after this clusterfuck, if we get through it. Keep your head down and your helmet on, no serious running. I want to go home with you in one piece._

_ —House_

Wilson carefully folded the note and tucked it into his chest pocket. He could hear the squad eating dinner in the main part of the trench, but felt no desire to join them. Instead, he decided to search through House's things, for his mother's address in case he was dead. The note had been sitting between a pack of cards and a notebook, with his name on the front. He was in the middle of pondering House being "a Marine all the way through" when he heard slow footsteps outside.

"Why are you digging through my stuff?" A gruff voice asked. Wilson looked up to see House, clean and shaven with a new uniform, standing at the doorway to their bunker.

"I was looking for your mother's address," Wilson said, trying not to show emotion. He wanted to be as much of a Marine as House; he wanted to gain favor and affection from the other man.

"Here," House tossed a clean t-shirt to Wilson.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, shedding his filthy jungle jacket. He yanked the t-shirt over his bare torso.

"Yeah, I still have my leg and it doesn't hurt. You?"

"Fine."

"Did anyone else die while I was gone?"

"Five NVA's, courtesy of your shotgun."

"I left your stripes at the bottom of the envelope. Stick them on whenever you want."

Wilson took the envelope out of House's backpack. When he opened it, his corporal's stripes fell into his waiting palm.

"House," Foreman interrupted, stepping into the bunker. "Just got a call from headquarters."

"And?" House picked up the M-60 and began to take it apart to clean it.

"They found a POW about 20 clicks south of here."

"See if you can put someone else on it. We have six inexperienced men and no medic."

"It's not going to work. They wanted you to help lead this."

"Do it, Foreman."

Foreman sneered and left the bunker. Wilson wiped a clean spot on the sleeve of his jungle jacket and started sewing.

"Why're you avoiding the POW camp?" Wilson asked, not looking up from his jacket. He didn't want to find fear in House's eyes.

"Because of what we'll find there," House stated bluntly. He kicked off his boots and lay on his bunk, putting the M-60 aside for later.

"Enlighten me."

House sat up and stripped down to his bare chest. Wilson glanced up briefly, then did a double-take.

"What the hell are those from?" Wilson pointed at two thick, red, ropy scars on House's chest.

"They wanted information. I wouldn't give it to them. It's against the Code of Conduct. Among other things, I wound up hanging from the ceiling by a pair of hooks for a couple of days before I finally fell down. I didn't even think someone would come find me."

Wilson stared at him, petrified and speechless, almost in horror. House dressed himself, ignoring the sympathy that Wilson exuded. Foreman reappeared by the doorway.

"We have to go," Foreman said. "Oh-six hundred tomorrow. Us and two other squads from this company, and some intelligence guys."

"Fine. Can you prep the squad?"

"Sure."

Foreman left. He knew all too well what had happened to House. When he had first arrived in-country, the squad had been assigned to a similar liberation mission. He'd tripped over House in his haste to free another man. House watched Foreman leave, and started to clean his rifles.

"When we get there," House said to Wilson, "stay next to me and don't stray off." Wilson watched House's hands swipe a rag over the barrel of his shotgun, avoiding his eyes. "We should be okay, but I don't need you getting lost. Get some rest." House put his gun aside and fished a harmonica out of his pack.

"Really, House?" Wilson said, looking disdainfully at the harmonica. He'd wanted to go to sleep.

"Yes, really." House lay down on his bunk and started to play. Wilson rolled over and tried to sleep. It was worse than the night he'd had to spend in jail for breaking an antique mirror.

*~*~*~*

"I hate bringing up the rear," House grumbled, shifting the 60 to his other shoulder. They were at the back of the three squads, safely behind any and all traps that had already claimed three men. They had simply had to take their tags, ammo and rifles and move on. Two pit traps and three anti-personnel mines later, they were almost at the POW site.

"It's safer back here," Wilson countered optimistically. One of the new recruits had given him a joint before they left, and its effects had made Wilson more of a ray of sunshine than he already was. House spent most of his morning telling his younger comrade to keep his mouth shut, that the forest wasn't pretty shades of emerald and blue.

"Halt!" The company commander barked. He motioned for House and another sergeant to come forward.

"Delta squad," the commander said, nodding to House, "take the buildings on the left hand side. Bravo, take the right. Alpha will take the center."

House glanced up at Foreman and motioned to a cluster of three buildings on the left. He held up three fingers, indicating to split into three groups, and joined Taub, Wilson and Foreman.

"Be quick," House hissed in a low tone. "Get the live ones if there are any. Get the tags off the dead ones. Move out."

The squad scattered. House kicked in the door with one swift swing of his boot and racked his shotgun. He had expected to find at least one enemy soldier, but saw only dead Marines. Taub raced in behind him, baring his M-16, and relaxed when nothing moved up to challenge him.

The building itself contained one pitch-black, damp room. The small windows near the roof were covered in moldy, oily rags. The darkness wasn't a problem as much as the smell. Wilson had already doubled over and thrown up upon reaching the rancid stench of rotting flesh.

"Get to it," House ordered. "You all have flashlights for a reason."

Hesitantly, the group drew out their flashlights and ventured forth. Taub began to collect the tags of the dead, defiled Marines while Foreman guarded the door. Wilson inched forward over the slick, dirty concrete and prodded a stack of cloth with the barrel of his rifle. It moved to the side, and Wilson immediately hit it with his flashlight. He hit something hard and almost fainted when a man appeared under the rags.

"Hold your fucking fire!" House ordered when he heard Wilson's gun start up. Wilson emptied an entire magazine into the man and reached for another. In his haste, he knocked a grenade off of his belt, causing the pin to spring out.

"God damn it Wilson!" House yanked the gun from Wilson's grasp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Foreman light a cigarette and toss his match on the ground.

"Run!"

Without a question, the little group fled the building as Foreman's match collided with the gasoline and oil on the floor. Combined with the grenade, the blast from the explosion threw all of the men onto the ground, chunks of rock and plaster raining down on their backs.

"House!" The company commander barked. "What the fuck was that?"

"Blowing up POW camps _is_ standard protocol," House said. He knew the commander should at least punch him for giving away their position, but also knew that the commander wouldn't lay a finger on him.

"At least give us some goddamn warning! For Christ's sake, you have a man down!"

House looked over his shoulder and saw Wilson lying next to a tree. His boots, slick from the oily floor of the POW building, had given way under him and tripped him, knocking him out.

"Move out!" The commander barked. "Delta and Bravo! Alpha takes care of the cleanup!"

Swearing under his breath, House strapped the M-60 to his back, gave Wilson's rifle to Chase, and heaved Wilson into an awkward sort of bridal carry. No one spoke on the return trip. Wilson's outburst terrified them all. How long until they, too, shot at anything that moved?

"What the hell?" Wilson mumbled, slowly opening his eyes. He looked up to see House's face, stoic and set forward. Instantly, he realized he had messed up severely. "House?"

"Shut the hell up and wait until we get back to the hill," House snapped, dropping Wilson onto his feet. "You damn near got us all killed."

Wilson fixed his gaze on his dirt boots and marched ahead in silence. The final hike up the hill was dreadful. After nearly two months of doing nothing on the hill, the two hour march left them all heaving. For every step they took up the muddy hill, they slid down at least double the distance. When they finally did reach the top, they collapsed into the trench and threw up, legs ripping in pain, dehydrated.

"Get some rest," House ordered. "Foreman, take over Chase's lookout duty."

Chase was still on the ground, curled up by the trench wall. His legs wouldn't support his weight as he tried pitifully to stand.

"Just leave him there?" Foreman asked, raising an eyebrow to House.

"Get him back to the bunker. There isn't anything you can do for him."

Foreman doubtfully looked at Chase and helped him to their bunker. House watched them leave, waiting until they were gone to go to his own shelter.

"You know you're a total dumbfuck, right?" House asked Wilson, tossing his rifles onto the foot of his rack. "You damn near killed this squad and two others—"

"—Foreman dropped the match!" Wilson screamed. "I only dropped a grenade that I could've picked up if that idiot hadn't dropped a burning match onto a gas puddle! We're not even supposed to smoke in the jungle, but you let him do whatever he wants to!"

"You dropped a grenade because you have no sense of self control! The pin fell out, and the shrapnel alone would've killed us all at such close range, not to mention the effect of the explosion. You have got to learn to keep yourself in check, Wilson! And quickly!"

Wilson yanked his .45 from the holster on his belt and pulled back the hammer. "What if I don't?" He said menacingly. "What if I keep us both in check? I can do that, you know. It's kind of hard to bitch someone out if you're wrapped in plastic."

"Calm the hell down, corporal! Drop the gun, now."

Wilson aimed his pistol at House's forehead. Taking advantage of Wilson's Zen, House shot his hands forward and twisted the gun from Wilson's grasp.

"You're an idiot," House said. "A goddamn idiot." House picked up everything but his unloaded M-60, Wilson's weapons as well as his own side arms, and went to Taub's bunker with them.

"Take these," House said, dropping the weapons on the crude table that Taub had constructed in his sniper's nest. "On pain of death, do not give them to Wilson. If we need them, I'll come back for them."

Taub looked up from his newspaper in surprise. "You're leaving Wilson unarmed?"

"He has fists."

House turned around and walked out of the bunker. Wilson was sitting on his rack, exactly where House had left him, staring at the ceiling.

"What the hell was that for?" Wilson demanded when he saw House's shadow on the wall. "Now I'm totally unarmed."

"Well, duh. If I left your weapons in here, we'd be dead by morning. You need to cool down and learn that the world's fucked up. You have to learn control if you want to live another week. Do you know what you did? You wasted an entire magazine on one guy."

"He would've killed me, House!"

"He was unarmed. If you paid any attention, you would've realized that he was an American Marine. Yep, same as you and me. But you got emotional, like a girl, and blew him up. I won't report you because I need you here, but don't expect to have your weapons back tonight. If the NVA storms our hill, you're fucked, just like the Marine you murdered."

"House, I'm going to get killed."

"It's your own damn fault."

"Why?" Wilson's voice broke. He couldn't believe that House, who said he needed him alive, would leave him for dead at the drop of a hat. If he were dead, there would be no way for him to find Danny.

"Cut the crap and go to sleep. You're a dumbass and I should bust you straight back to private."

House put his M-60, now loaded, between himself and the wall and laid down. He didn't fall asleep, his mind wouldn't quiet, and he simply lay awake listening to Wilson's heavy breath. As the night progressed, boredom weaseled into his brain, making him drowsy. He was nearly asleep when quiet, hesitant footsteps jarred him awake. He drew his knife from his boot and waited.

Ever so slowly, a teenage boy crept into the bunker. House praised the fact that it was a new moon, and the bunker was nearly pitch-black. House had made a habit of sleeping in the shadows, so as far as the intruder was concerned, he was completely invisible. He followed the boy's outline as he stopped next to Wilson's bunk. Silently, he took aim, and threw his knife, impaling the boy through his heart.

"Wilson," House hissed, poking the younger man to wake him, but covering his mouth to keep him from crying out. "Stay here, take the 60, keep your flashlight out, stay quiet. I'll be back as quick as I can."

Wilson groggily followed House's orders, wondering why House decided to leave in the middle of the night. House had gone to wake the others, hoping that the child intruder hadn't annihilated his entire squad while they slept. Foreman and Chase were awake, staring out into the jungle. Taub was well hidden; he'd dug himself an underground burrow, and four of the new men were safely snoring in their bunkers. The two men in Kutner's former bunk were less fortunate; their throats had been cut wide open.

"What's going on?" Wilson asked when House returned, loaded down with weaponry and ammo. "Why was there a body on the floor?"

"Ambush," House said. "That was the intruder. He was right up next to you. Here," House handed Wilson his weapons. Wilson gratefully accepted the rifle and pistol, checking them to make sure they were loaded properly.

"I'm not apologizing," House said, "But I won't confiscate them if you stay sane. The whole place is on one hundred percent alert, even nearby hills, so don't go back to sleep."

"Was everyone okay?"

"We lost the two guys in Kutner's old bunker. Everyone else is—" A piercing shriek stopped House's speech. House grabbed Wilson, threw him on the ground, and covered him with his own body as a volley of rockets and mortars slammed into the side of the hill. In an instant, the roof of their bunker was gone. House tightened his grip on Wilson, clinging to him, until the hill stopped shaking.

"Holy shit," Wilson yelped, "what was that?"

House heard the rest of the squad moving and hoped that Foreman had the sense to quiet them. "Rockets," he said, rolling off of Wilson. "Squad! Assemble in the middle of the trench! Someone get Taub!"

Disoriented and stumbling, the young Marines gathered around House in the middle of the trench. Miraculously, the squad had remained uninjured, but they'd lost three of their six bunkers. House counted his men, silently praising Taub for moving the ammo and supply bunkers underground while he and Foreman were bored a few weeks prior.

"We have to move underground," House said. "Dig carefully and use plywood and sandbags for support. You only have one chance so don't screw up. Be quick."

The squad split up. House and Wilson's bunker had taken the most damage, next to Chase and Foreman's. The men worked in silence and managed to dig themselves nearly eight feet into the earth. As a precaution, they created a sort of irrigation system from scraps of corrugated steel to help outlast the final days of the rainy season.

*~*~*~*

"I can't hear out of my left ear," Wilson said over breakfast the next morning. Chase had appointed himself as medic, and had asked Wilson why his helmet was purposely tilted. They were all gathered in the sniper's nest; Taub, Wilson, House, Foreman and Chase, seeking out a safe place to have breakfast. The middle of the trench was too wet to sit in.

"The blast probably took out your eardrum," House said, "there's penicillin back in the gopher hole." Gopher hole was their term for the underground bunkers. Wilson nodded and picked up an empty bread can.

"Does anyone have some C-4?" Wilson asked. His comrades gave him a cruel glare. No one trusted him with explosives, nor Foreman with matches, since the nearly fatal explosion at the POW camp. "I just want to try something."

With an agitated sigh, Chase handed Wilson a small lump of the explosive putty. Wilson pinched off a tiny piece, dropped it into the can along with some shreds of paper, and lit it up.

"Canteen?"

House handed Wilson a canteen. Wilson poured a small bit of water into his mess pan, added some of the dry, chunky beef from his lunch ration, plus some cheese and salt, and stirred it together.

"Tell me what you think," Wilson said as his squad members passed the dish around, sampling the improvised stew.

"Not bad," Foreman said. It was the closest thing to a real dinner that the men had had in months.

"More salt," from House.

Wilson took his pan back and extinguished the C-4.

"Maybe you're not a total idiot," House said fondly. Wilson hid the pride welling in his chest. From now on, given some C-4, the men could have hot meals. Wilson had saved their stomachs.


	6. Rockets

Chapter 6—Rocket

"I think I'm stuck," Wilson said, trying to move from his sleeping position. The rainy season had recently ended, leaving the heat of the jungle to bake the underground soldiers at Khe Sanh. As a result, the mud on House and Wilson's uniforms had dried to the sides of their gopher hole overnight, fusing them to the walls.

"Yep," House grunted, unsuccessfully trying to wiggle his arms free. "Shit." He flexed his legs, sighing from relief when they came loose. "It's all in the legs."

Wilson tried to free himself in the same way as House, but failed again. He had slept too close to the wall, and some loose mud had fallen over him during the night. House sat up and started to wiggle Wilson away from the wall.

"House," Foreman interjected, ducking into the gopher hole, "I—am I interrupting something?"

House was busy straddling Wilson's waist, having difficulty freeing the younger man's flak jacket.

"Nope," House said, "he's stuck. Pretty well, if I can have an opinion. You get his arms." House shifted position and grabbed Wilson's legs. With a tug and a grunt, Wilson popped free.

"Try sleeping back to back," Foreman suggested. "If we're here that long. They're sending in the Army to relieve our position."

"What?" House looked at Foreman in disbelief. After watching four supply choppers fall out of the air at the NVA's guns, the men of the hills had abandoned hope of liberation.

"Yeah, they came in early this morning."

"Aren't we under siege?"

"Not anymore. We're leaving that to the doggies. The choppers should be here at 1100 hours and the CO said to be quick." Foreman crawled out of the gopher hole and disappeared. Wilson and House simply sat in the drying mud, staring at each other in shock.

"A bunch of Army brats think they can replace us," House finally said, a small smile spreading over his face. "They're morons. Thank God."

"Are we really free?" Wilson asked, changing his socks. He could hardly look at his fungus-ravaged feet without gagging.

"We'll just wait and see. Pack up, Boot, we're going home."

*~*~*~*

The grungy troop of Marines couldn't believe that they were on the helicopter going out of Khe Sanh. For nearly three months, they'd lived in trenches, migrating underground, longing to find a place on a medevac chopper. They were filthy; no new uniforms had arrived in three weeks. Going back to base meant that they could shower, something that hadn't happened since they left Parris Island. They were completely silent as they watched the ravaged hills disappear, praying that it wasn't some horrible dream. They would eat as much as they could. They would drink. They wouldn't have to cower in their gopher holes as mortars pounded on their hills, living in fear.

"When we land," House yelled over the helicopter engine, "Go straight to the showers. Don't worry about splitting up, the CO's will make sure we find each other."

The helicopter touched down and House led his squad onto the airstrip. Instantly, they moved into a quick, synchronized jog, following signs pointing to the showers.

"I can't believe this," Wilson said, pitching his boots into a garbage bin. They were due new uniforms and equipment.

"Believe it," House countered, "it's not a siege. Finally." He started to pull his t-shirt over his head and it went to shreds in his hands, the collar hanging around his neck. Flies gathered around the piles of old uniforms as the men were herded off to the showers.

"Holy crap I'm a white guy!" House exclaimed jokingly when he emerged from the shower beside Foreman. Their skin, although still gritty and reddish, seemed so new and shiny. They hadn't seen their actual bodies in months. A scared-looking private cautiously approached the group of naked Marines, a large box in his arms.

"Uniforms," the private said. "Bagged, with your names on them. Delta Squad, Golf Company?"

House thanked the private and opened the box. "What do you know," he said, tossing a bag to Foreman, "he wasn't being sarcastic."

The men quickly dressed, leaving the box behind for someone else to pick up, searching out the mess hall. They could smell it before they saw it—steaks sizzling on a series of grills. Resisting the impulse to run for the steaks and devour all of them in an instant, the squad found an empty table and sat down. Taub managed to scare up some beer, and passed it out.

"This is insane," Wilson said, "are we really out of the hills? I'm seriously thinking I'm schizophrenic."

"Yep," House said, "our next assignment is probably out on the coast somewhere, or maybe on the border. Maybe Danny's out there, Wilson. Dinner's ready."

The Marines hastily assembled in the dinner queue and returned to their tables with steaks, real green beans and ice cream. They all knew that the sudden return to a normal, warm, not freeze-dried meal would make them sick, but they didn't waste a crumb. For the first time since they arrived in-country, they ate their fill.

"I'm going up to the armory," House announced, picking up his empty plate and beer can. "I'll find you all later." House straightened his boonie hat and walked away.

Quang Tri was fairly quiet at night, House decided. The night ops helicopters were already gone. There was an occasional pop as an outgoing mortar left its tube, but the guns weren't blazing like at the fearful main base at Khe Sanh. House hiked over the hill past the barracks, and underground, into the armory. He wasn't looking for a rifle, he knew his own arms were safely in the barracks, he wanted a solitary place. He heard footsteps softly padding on the grass outside and swore heavily.

"House," Wilson called, peeking into the armory. "We have a curfew." He saw the sergeant standing alone and entered the little room.

"Never stopped me before," House countered, "I'm always where I'm not supposed to be."

"There are rules here, House. Come on, there's a decent radio in the barracks. And pillows and blankets. You can sleep without getting bogged down in the mud, for once."

House weighed the prospect of a good night's rest against an hour's silence. Taub and Foreman snored heavily, Chase not far behind. "I'll come back. Just not before curfew."

Wilson cast House a reproachful look. "You deserve at least one night's sleep. We could be dead tomorrow."

"Which is why we need to stay here."

"What do you mean?"

"We're underground. It's safer here."

"We're not going to get bombed, House. The dead tomorrow thing was a joke. You're paranoid."

"I'm not leaving."

Wilson reached out and gently tugged on House's hand. He wanted to go to sleep and wanted House to come along. He didn't understand why House was bent on staying in the armory. He wasn't advocating lax security, either, but he knew that they were safer at Quang Tri than out in the jungle. He looked at his friend, trying to gather something from his sparkling blue eyes, and found nothing but an implication that House was about to do something extremely un-House-like.

"You there, House?"

House yanked Wilson to him and held him tightly.

"Let's go back," Wilson said. He didn't want to leave. House would probably never voluntarily embrace him again, not with the same tenderness. They had to leave before an officer found them. Plenty of the men at Quang Tri had a grievance against House, and a relation with another man could mean dishonorable discharge.

"Not yet," House protested, still holding him. He softly kissed the top of Wilson's head, then his neck, then his lips.

"Anyone down here," A voice demanded. House quickly disengaged from all physical contact and ran out of the armory, Wilson on his heels.

"What are you doing?" A porky lieutenant asked, waving his flashlight in House's face.

"Going to bed," House said, wincing at the light. He kept walking, hoping that Wilson had enough sense to follow him. The lieutenant's light faded away. "I'll go to bed now, will you tell me a story?"

"You're an ass," Wilson said, "be glad we didn't get caught."

Wilson pushed open the door to their assigned barracks. Foreman, Chase and Taub were already asleep, snoring loudly. House nickered to himself. Snoring gave away their positions out in the jungle, so he always had the same three men on guard during the night. Now they could rest peacefully. House unlaced his boots and climbed into the top bunk of the corner racks. He felt the frame rattle against the plywood wall as Wilson settled into bed and sighed happily.

A piercing shriek jarred the Marines from their sleep. It was a sound they knew all too well; the sound of an incoming rocket. House leapt out of his bed, pulled Wilson out of his, and covered him with his own body as the walls of the bunker were violently ripped away. Rockets weren't a problem when they were underground, on the hill. Now that everything was above ground, the lone rocket caused total devastation. The ground rocked beneath them, shrapnel flying through the air as a second and third rocket hit the middle of the base.

"Come on," House ordered, pulling a terrified Wilson to his feet. He led him across the base and underground, into the armory. They stopped and collapsed on the floor, chests heaving, while another rocket pounded into the ground. Wilson felt something warm oozing onto his pants and realized that he hadn't wet himself.

"House…Oh my God…"

Wilson's jaw slowly dropped as he looked his friend over. House's right leg had been ripped apart by shrapnel, his back sliced open. How he'd managed to hold up through the sprint to the armory, Wilson didn't know. He caught House as he fell forward, resting his head in his lap. He quickly stripped off his own shirt and jacket and used them to slow the bleeding. The ground shook again, dusting them with dirt. Men were running all over the base, Wilson could see their boots through the doorway of the armory. He yelled for a medic, screaming until one of the pairs of boots stopped in front of the armory.


	7. Stability

Chapter 7—Stable

"He's finally stable," a distant voice said, "but we still don't know about the leg."

House felt his consciousness return slightly, not enough to open his eyes. His entire body was in a world of hurt, his right leg burning away from the rest of him.

"He'll be able to keep it, right?" Another disembodied voice asked. House recognized it as Wilson's and felt a little better about being in an unknown hospital about to lose a leg.

"He should. Walking, probably not, but he won't lose his leg."

"Thank you."

House heard the distinctive sound of dress shoes ticking on tile floors and felt someone grasp his hand. He gently squeezed back and opened his eyes. He made a point to only look up; he didn't want to know what his body looked like after his ordeal.

"Wilson?" House mumbled, whether in question or acknowledgement, Wilson couldn't discern.

"Yeah," Wilson said, "it's me.

House looked over at him and managed a small smile. Wilson dissolved into tears on the spot. Through the heaving and sobbing, House managed to gather that he hadn't been expected to survive the first night, that not everyone was wounded, and that Quang Tri had been completely flattened.

"Is anyone dead?" House asked.

"No one," Wilson hiccupped, "that we know. Foreman took a lot of shrapnel to the chest, but he's okay now."

"Am I okay?"

"No. We're both being sent home."

"But you're okay."

"Not exactly."

"I took the shrapnel. I covered you. Nothing could've hit you.

"I went for help after you passed out and I got into trouble."

"You're not in a wheelchair, though."

Wilson pointed to his right arm, which hung in a sling around his neck. House saw a heavy cast supporting the length of his arm from the shoulder to the knuckles. "It's completely shattered. I wound up thrown into a wall when another blast hit. I'm also completely deaf in my left ear, and they don't want me now."

"We can't leave. Not yet. We're not done yet."

House tried to sit up, but Wilson pushed him back onto the bed. "We're done, House. No more Vietnam."

House sank back on the bed in disbelief. No more Vietnam.

*~*~*~*

"Foreman," House yelled over the din of the helicopter engine, "don't die! Write as soon as you can, got it?"

"Yes, sir!" Foreman yelled back. He jokingly saluted and turned around. Two men lifted House's wheelchair into the helicopter and Wilson jumped in beside him. House mournfully watched Foreman's retreating back as the helicopter rose off the ground. Wilson sat on the bench next to House's wheelchair and wrapped his good arm around the sergeant's shoulders. After all hell's fire, they were going home.

*~*~*~*

"What do we do now?" Taub asked, cleaning his rifle. Taub, Foreman and Chase had been reassigned to a coastal combat base not far from the North and South Vietnam border. While it was safer than the hills, it still held risk of naval assault or an air raid.

"Keep the peace," Foreman said, "there isn't much we can do. House isn't coming back and neither is Wilson."

Taub nearly dropped his scrub brush and the rifle barrel in his hands. "What?"

"House nearly lost a leg and Wilson shattered his right arm from the shoulder down. They're never going to fight again."

"Are you serious?"

"I wish I wasn't. Chase wound up with the 60."

"Crap.

*~*~*~*

House sat awake, alone, on his and Wilson's bed. He vigorously massaged his throbbing right leg, biting back swearwords at the nearly intolerable, flaming pain. He was certain that a surgeon had missed a chunk of shrapnel somewhere.

"Greg!" Wilson yelled, voice coming from the kitchen. House immediately snatched up his cane and limped into the kitchen. It had been a year since Wilson had called his name like that, in pure terror and pain. The last time he'd heard that scream, Wilson had almost been killed.

"What?" House demanded, leaning on the table. Wilson was still in his pajamas and robe. The mail was scattered all over the table—letters from Foreman, bills—and Wilson only held one envelope.

"It's a KIA."

House hung his cane on the back of his chair and wrapped his arm around Wilson's waist. He plucked the envelope from his fingers and took out the crumpled letter. Wilson dropped to his knees.

"Get up," House snapped, "you know I can't bend down that far to pick you up."

Wilson peeled himself off the floor, still crying.

"Well, who was it?"

"Danny."

House looked at the KIA notice. It was nearly a year old. He checked the location. Khe Sanh.

"He must've been with the army," Wilson sobbed, pulling himself into his chair. House moved his own chair next to Wilson and sat down. "If we'd stayed one more day he might—"

"—Listen to me. People die. Very few made it out of that hell hole. You, me, Foreman, Chase and Taub were five lucky bastards. Five out of two hundred men, Wilson. Danny would have died anyway." House folded the letter and tossed it back onto the table. "It's a good thing this got lost in the mail. We were bombed the same night he was. You never would have found him."

Wilson could only nod, head in his hands. House picked up his cane and stood up.

"Go sit on the couch," House instructed, "grab _The Thing_ and I'll meet you in there in a minute."

Wilson slowly rose from his seat and disappeared into the living room. House rang the closest pizza delivery store and took the six pack of beer from the fridge.

"I can't believe this, "Wilson said. He snatched a beer can from the cluster on the coffee table. "The trenches were plenty deep. Hell, they were underground. We took so many direct hits and nobody died. Nothing ever happened."

"He was new," House said, not really in the mood for a consultation. Wilson's caring was horribly inconvenient, especially when his priorities lay in beer and bad movies. "He probably didn't have any idea of what he was supposed to do. The idiot probably just ran too slow or something."

"He wasn't an idiot."

Both men ceased talking, attention turned to the god-awful movie on the television screen. The pizza man knocked on the door, causing them to jump off the couch and hit the floor out of pure instinct.

"Pizza man," House grumbled, slowly standing. He took a pill bottle from his pocket, swallowed its contents, and answered the door.


	8. Died, On the Field of Honor

A/N: Sorry this chapter's a little choppy. Unfortunately, this was the easiest way to do it. PS: Character death. I don't own John Lennon.

Chapter 8—Died, On the Field Of Honor

Foreman loaded his M-16 and left the hooch, the last one to assemble into the neat formation of men standing in the courtyard at their little seaside base. _Pathetic_, he thought, _my own men assembled before I did._

"Where are we headed?" Taub asked when Foreman stopped beside him.

"The border," Foreman said. Taub fought the bile rising in his throat at the thought of going to the border, the front line. He was grateful that he'd had the sense to write his family the night before.

"You're kidding," Chase interjected, adjusting the M-60 on his shoulders. He'd had the gun for a little over eight months, since House had left, but it still bore down on him. It crushed him. In the last month alone, he'd managed to kill more men with that gun than the rest of the squad combined. "I have fourteen days left here, and we're going to the damn border?"

"Move out!"

The squad lurched forward at a quick march. They weren't far from the border between North and South Vietnam. It would only be a half-day's march before they were in the thick of the fight. Behind Chase, a new Marine stopped to throw up.

*~*~*~*

"Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?" House snapped. "A peace rally? What the hell, Wilson?"

Wilson pushed his hair away from his face. "I said you didn't have to come with me."

"Like I had anything better to do. Normally, when vets 'go out for the day', they go to a bar. Somewhere interesting. They don't hang out with a bunch of stinky peaceniks, especially when—"

House was cut off by a wave of protesters. He and Wilson found themselves swept into the mass of people and grasped hands so they wouldn't be forcibly separated. Up ahead, House could see an arrangement of fire hoses. Suddenly, Wilson's reasoning made sense. They were only walking. They were walking away from what had killed his brother.

*~*~*~*

"They're advancing!" Foreman barked, "we have to pull back!"

"We're fine," Taub countered, trying not to let his words drown in the conversation between his M-16 and the Vietnamese guns.

"You're taking over if I'm dead!"

Taub ceased fire and threw a grenade. "Get Chase and that new guy up on their flank! Another squad's coming in to help out!"

Foreman ordered Chase and his new companion to advance. Soon enough, a group of muddy, disgruntled hill Marines arrived, carrying mortars and recoilless rifles. For the time being, they were saved.

*~*~*~*

"I still think this was a crappy idea," House protested. They had made it past the crowd-control volunteers with fire hoses and were almost at the White House gates. Armed National Guardsmen lined the sidewalk, ready to fire at the slightest sign of non-peaceful protest. A group of boys were walking in front of them, pushing daisies stem-first down the barrels of their rifles. The young soldiers looked appalled, wondering why other boys their own age would do such a thing. Peace was beyond them.

"This won't work," House continued, tugging at Wilson's hand. He wanted to go home and watch TV. The heavy smells of pot and sweat were beginning to make him nauseous, and it was a far walk for a cripple.

"We have to try."

*~*~*~*

"They're still coming!" Chase cried, "Foreman! Do something!"

No answer reached Chase's ears. He fired the last of his ammunition into the advancing Vietnamese, eyes parking in terror when his tired gun finally stopped spitting bullets.

"Pull back!" Taub ordered. This time, Chase heard him. He gathered up his guns and the body of his fallen companion, threw a smoke and a frag, and fled.

"What happened?" Chase asked, running towards his squad. The medic took the corpse from his shoulders. "Why did we stop?"

"CO's dead," a new Marine said nonchalantly, "why else?"

Chase shoved the M-60 into the other man's hands and searched out Taub, He saw him at the front of the line, he saw Foreman's limp body hanging over his shoulders. Chase silently took Taub's rifles and they walked on in silence, the weight of Foreman's body crushing both of them into the ground.

*~*~*~*

House yanked open the door to the fridge, in search of beer to soothe his aching leg. The sound of thousands of people singing "Give Peace a Chance" still echoed in his head. He took out a can of beer and a slice of cold pizza and stared out the window, lost in though.

"Why are you still awake?" Wilson asked, wincing at the sudden light in the kitchen. It was three in the morning.

"Can't sleep," House said, "I can still hear those freaking hippies."

"Leave them alone," Wilson said, "at least they're being productive. What're you doing?"

"Realizing that none of this is going to stop that stupid war. The big-name whatevers are making way too much money out of this and they don't want to stop. Protesting is useless. Lennon and the peaceniks can sing all they want, but the president hates music. Seriously, send him a Beatles record. You'll get it back in pieces." House took a swig of beer. "I'm never doing that again, by the way. That asshole Guardsman beat me in the leg."

_House—_

_ I know it's normally Foreman who does the reporting, but he's dead. I'm stuck near the line with Chase and a bunch of recruits. The body comes back in 10 days. Help._

_ —Taub_

House tossed the letter on the table. Stray thoughts roamed his head. Why would Taub want his help? Taub hated house, he hated fighting. He preferred to stay holed up in a tree, sniping where no one could see him. House looked at the date on the letter and went to the bedroom.

"Jimmy," House snapped, turning on the overhead lights. "Get up. We're going to Arlington."

"The hell?" Wilson said sleepily. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Arlington?"

"Yep. Get dressed, formal. We only have about five hours, so ditch the blow dryer and get your ass in the car."

House limped further into the room and tore into the closet. He hastily threw on his formal uniform and went to the car, keys in hand. Wilson followed a few minutes later, grumpy and silent, and backed out of the driveway. The entire car ride was spent in silence. House constantly checked his watch, not allowing Wilson to stop for anything.

"Slow down," Wilson wheezed, "you're supposed to be a cripple. This is a hill."

House, despite his leg, was moving faster than Wilson up the tall hill. The shining black horses were already leaving, towing their empty carriage; they had missed Foreman's burial and 21 gun salute.

"Damn it," House growled up on reaching the abandoned grave. "You just had to drive the speed limit."

"At least we're here," Wilson snapped. "I could've just said no."

"You know I would've driven down by myself."

"I wish you had. I'm going to go find Danny."

Wilson marched away in a huff and disappeared over another hill. House looked down at Foreman's headstone, thinking.

_He was in the worst pain that he'd ever known. Vietnamese men stood in front of him, smoking and laughing at the sight of him. It gave a brand-new meaning to the word hell. He felt his flesh start to give way under the cool, bloody metal hooks. _No. No. Not yet._ His body had taken all it could, and he fell to the floor in a pool of his own blood. The filthy cement was so cold. _I'm going to die alone._ Suddenly, the Vietnamese men collapsed in front of him. A black corporal that he barely knew, and treated like all shit, stood over him without a trace of blood on his tattered uniform. _"You're going to be okay." _The corporal's voice was so warm. He lost himself in the hasty embrace, the fall to the stretcher. _

House yanked himself out of the memory. He touched Foreman's headstone once and looked around for Wilson. He didn't want to think about the day he had met Foreman; that day was shrouded in more pain that he'd ever felt. He saw Wilson standing in a cluster of graves about a hundred yards away and started walking.

_ "I'm going away for awhile," Danny said, "I'm going to 'Nam. Don't follow me unless you want to die."_

"Moron," House mumbled, stopping next to Wilson. "You knew I was messing with you."

"Yeah," Wilson said, "but I still think you could be a little less of an ass. You woke me at five in the morning."

"Is this him?" House pointed to the tomb stone at Wilson's feet.

"It was."

"You know, if we'd stayed, we might be dead."

"No. Like you said, he was new. Didn't know how to stay down. That would've saved us and we could have saved him in the process."

"Unlikely. According to the CO who was stationed up there, it was a brutal attack."

"We'll call it a tie."

"Good. I'm hungry and you're buying me lunch."


End file.
